Later Tonight
by storybycorey
Summary: After a steamy phone call and an even steamier encounter at an Italian restaurant, how will Mulder and Scully finally end their evening? The final installment in the Today series. You really should read Today and Tonight first!


They haven't spoken since their heated dash to the car, though she'd whispered 'don't let go' with the squeeze of her fingertips at the passenger door. Foolish really, because in order for her to climb in, he had no other choice.

But now that she's touched him, the thought of *not* is unfathomable.

Their eyes meet when he turns the key in the ignition, and her breath catches. She wonders how many breaths she's caught today, in that secret place at the back of her throat. Surely she must be close to running out of room.

He licks his lips, and her heart—which has been at his beck and call for seven long years— revs itself up again. It takes everything within her not to climb right over the console and back into his lap. How could she have ever been foolish enough to leave it?

She remembers being grateful for that console earlier, the space it had provided between them. Now she wants to rip it out with her bare hands. She wants to obliterate every molecule of space between them. But she wouldn't want to hurt them—her hands. She's going to need her hands. She's most definitely going to need her hands tonight.

The air in the car is palpable and thick with sex. Has it always been that way with him? She can feel it against her skin, feathery and soft, yet so heavy, she's having a hard time breathing. Each inhalation only works to arouse her further.

She's like gunpowder, quivering in her casing while he speeds through town, packed so tightly inside her shell she's ready to explode at just the slightest provocation.

He is her match. He is her trigger.

He is solid and masculine and breathing in a way that makes her sweat. Has she ever wanted someone like this? So hopelessly, so profoundly? In her head, she replays their encounter in the restaurant—his hands cupping her breasts, his tongue inside her mouth, his words tickling her ear—and she wonders whether she could live inside that place forever.

But the night's not over yet; in fact, it may just be beginning. And she'd hate to miss what's yet to come. She thinks she may swoon.

She squirms in her seat to abate some of the pressure, and when he looks at her, he groans.

"Fuck, Scully…," he grunts in a voice plucked directly from her deepest fantasies.

She trails her tongue along her still-swollen-from-his-kisses bottom lip and closes her eyes, trying desperately not to come in the seat of his economy-sized car.

This ride may very well be the longest (and wettest) ten minutes of her life.

Her apartment building looms ahead, and an inviting expanse of pavement beckons them. Has she ever been more enamored of a parking space? She would kiss the tarry black asphalt if she didn't think it would taint her lips. But she needs her lips as untainted as possible tonight—she wants nothing to come between her and the taste of his body.

He opens her car door, and she sucks in a breath. His crotch is directly at eye-level, and it's quite clear what he has in store for her. She can barely restrain herself from sliding out and falling to her knees. Right there, in front of her neighbors, on this serendipitous black pavement.

No time though, because he's already pulling her, strongly and firmly, and how the fuck can she become wetter than she already is, just from the grip of his hand? She can physically feel the want coursing through her veins.

She fumbles in her purse for the keys. Her fingers are trembling, for Christ's sake. He is a pulsing furnace at her back, smothering her with his heat, pressing against her so deliciously, she can't even fit one simple piece of metal into another. Jesus, Dana, were three locks really necessary? Did you not consider how very desperately you may need to get back inside this evening?

He whines, "Scullyyyyy," with his hands roaming her hips and his lips against her brow, and she almost says fuck it and turns around, nosy neighbors be damned. My God, is that really him, hard as steel, thrusting against her spine?

"Good things come to those who wait…," she barely manages to gasp, hoping to convince at least herself, while she fights the sudden lack of dexterity his nearness is rendering in her fingers.

"I've been waiting seven years, Scully," he growls. She can't hide her whimper as she arches involuntarily back against him.

A final burst of agility defeats the third lock, and they spill inside with a wanton rush, clumsily slamming the door closed behind them.

He stands a few feet away, and she looks into his eyes. They're dark and alive and calling to her. She wants to answer. But it's a different world in here—glowing and soft and still. Her apartment is sacred ground; it hasn't yet witnessed their passion.

It's definitely time to change that.

His gaze is hungry and his voice is gruff as he says, "I believe we were attending to some unfinished business." He slowly heads her way.

She runs her tongue along her teeth and gulps in a deep breath. She realizes she's shaking as she whispers, "Then finish it, Mulder."

He grows to ten feet tall in the span of a second, and she's never felt so small yet so utterly safe in the presence of another person. He swoops down to claim her. And then, they are finishing it, with tongues in mouths and fingers in hair and bodies reuniting as if it's been ten years instead of a mere ten minutes.

And this time, there's no basement bathroom door between them. There's no Italian waiter lurking behind a curtain.

He sucks her bottom lip between his teeth, and she softly moans, scratching her nails along the silky skin of his neck. She's never imagined his mouth could do such wonderful things. Well, perhaps she'd hoped, but her hopes had nothing on the sorcery he's performing right now.

He gives her mouth the attention he gives to the unexplained. Seeking, probing, examining. Only instead of files and slides, he uses lips and teeth and tongue. Oh god, tongue. The things he's doing to her with his tongue are the biggest X-File of them all.

She grips the back of his head and pulls him even closer. She can't get enough of him. He is everything everything everything.

He backs them up against her front door, and she's never felt a sweeter sensation. Solid wood at her back, solid Mulder at her front, and she, soft and limpid between. With his tongue sliding along the roof of her mouth, he cups her rear and lifts, and she realizes that 'sweet' doesn't even come close to describing it anymore.

Decadent, this is absolutely decadent, she thinks, as her heart races and her legs wrap around his hips. Her skirt is cutting into her thighs, but god, she doesn't care, because his hands are on her ass and his hard cock is exactly where she's wanted it for seven years.

Their moans collide in her mouth, and the sound slips down her throat to settle in her core with a vibration so tangible she shudders. Hell, this is the best sex she's ever had, and they haven't even seen each other naked.

"Scully…," he mutters between nips along the curve of her jaw.

"Hmmm?" she hums, arching her neck to afford him better access. She's longed for his mouth against her neck since Alaska, six damn years ago.

"I've always thought of you… ahhh…," he pauses as she dips her fingers into the neck of his sweater to play along his back. "…I've always thought of you as a good girl…"

"I'm a good girl mostly. Aren't I?" she simpers. My god, did she really just simper? His skin and muscle mold themselves into the palms of her hands like warm, soft clay. She remembers him calling her a good girl on the phone today, and she grows impossibly wetter. Fuck, she can smell herself.

He thrusts against her, and she gasps in surprise. "I don't know, Scully. Are you? I think today…," he presses her further against the door, grinding himself against her, his lips hot and slick at her ear. She hears herself panting. "Today…, I think you were a little bit…," thrust, "…naughty." Thrust. Jesus Christ.

Her head drops back against the door, and she softly moans. She shifts her pelvis in order to seek out his heat—her clit is throbbing for him. She wonders whether anyone has ever died from wanting another person too desperately.

"The way you climbed into my lap in a *public* establishment…," he murmurs against her throat, "The story you told me over the phone…." He nips sharply at her pulse, and she reaches blindly between them, bunching his sweater into her fingers and tugging. "The way you *touched* yourself at the office…." Holy fuck, could his voice get any huskier? "Did you like touching yourself, Scully? Did you like *tasting* yourself for me?" Thrust.

"Oh god…," she whimpers, trying desperately to pull his sweater over his head.

He presses her firmly against the door while releasing his hold on her ass, and she finally tugs him free. "Tell me…, tell me if you liked it," he grunts, gripping her against him again and undulating his hips.

"God yes, Mulder, yessss, I liked it," she moans. She reaches forward to find his neck with her lips and slides them along his clavicle, dipping her tongue into the hollow and tasting him.

He grunts sexily in reply.

"Mulder?" she whispers.

"Yeah?"

She scrapes her teeth along his jaw, "Take me to bed…. It's been seven years, and I'm getting kind of cranky."

"Fuuuuck, Scully…," his tongue invades her mouth, and it feels so divine, she doesn't want to remember a time it didn't exist there. Sucking it in further, she delights in the groan that rumbles against her lips. He's the most delicious thing she's ever had the pleasure of tasting.

He carries her to the bedroom, and though perhaps she should protest such a blatant display of machismo, she secretly finds it hot as fuck. She secretly finds just about everything about Fox Mulder hot as fuck these days. And when she finally slides her way down his body, the size of his erection against her belly makes her think that perhaps (if she's lucky) he finds *her* hot as fuck, too.

Her feet touch the floor and she realizes it's the first time she's set foot in her bedroom since… since a lot of things. Since he gave her flowers, since he bought her dinner in a private booth, since he cupped her breasts in said private booth, since he pressed his hard cock against her swollen clit while grinding her into the (never-to-be-looked-at-the-same-again) front door…. She bites her lip just thinking about what's yet to come. *Who's* yet to come. Oh, you naughty girl, Dana. She can hardly wait.

She kicks off her heels and looks up into his eyes, and thinks, this is finally it—we've finally found our way. All the pain, all the angst, all the trials, they've led us right here, standing before each other in a bedroom that's been too empty for too long.

"Thank you," she whispers, with fingertips skating along his bare ribs.

"For what?" his eyes search her own as he slips his hand behind her neck, as he pulls her gently closer.

"For this morning," she reaches up and kisses his shoulder—his skin is smooth as her tongue slips out to taste it. "For this afternoon," she slides her mouth, leaving a wet trail across his chest. "For tonight," she finds his nipple and sucks. "And for what's about to happen…later tonight," she takes it between her teeth and tugs, lightly, but enough that he throws back his head and groans.

His fingers clench in her hair, and she continues her delicate onslaught of his chest. She's fantasized about this chest for so long, the reality of it—hard and hot, laid before her for the taking—is almost more than she could have hoped for. Her tongue fits precisely into the spaces between every muscle she encounters, and his moans fit precisely into her ears.

"Tell me, Scully…," he gasps, "tell me what's going to happen later tonight…" His fingers are restless, twining through her hair, sweeping down her shoulders.

She takes a step closer to the bed. "C'mere, Mulder, and maybe you'll find out…," she tosses the words at him the way she hopes he'll toss her clothing—haphazardly, yet with definite purpose. He doesn't disappoint.

Her cashmere sweater is gone before she even realizes he's there, but that suits her just fine. Because his hands replace it and are infinitely more luxurious. He groans in appreciation once he sees the bra she chose so deliberately just a few hours ago.

"For me?" he whispers, and she nods, looking up to him with parted lips.

"Thank YOU, Scully," he murmurs, but she hardly hears him; he is already crouching, hands at her waist, lips pressed into the curves between her breasts. Her breath hitches. She's wanted him there for such a very long time.

He runs his tongue along the black laced edge, and she thinks she's never felt anything more erotic. Her eyes drift closed while the cool wet path he leaves weakens her knees. She grips his shoulders and feels herself turning, turning. By the time she opens her eyes, he has spun them around and is now sitting on the bed, thighs spread so she stands in the middle, his mouth now perfectly aligned to reach her breasts. Oh, how very clever of him.

He catches her eye and slips his index finger beneath the strap on her shoulder. Nudge. It slides down her arm. Nudge. The other arm as well. Can he see her trembling? Can he smell her soaking through her panties? Eyes still connected, he reaches behind her. Snick. The bra flutters to the ground at precisely the same moment a squeak flutters from her open mouth.

She remembers their phone call this afternoon (was it really only a few hours ago?), imagining his face as he sees her for the first time. Well, guess what, Dana? Your imagination sucks. Because this, THIS, is so much better than you ever imagined. His look of reverence is breathtaking, one he reserves for spaceships and aliens and things for which he's searched his entire life. She's never seen that look focused on something as corporeal as a simple human being. Until now. She bites her lip at the thought that perhaps he's been searching his whole life for HER.

His eyes sweep across her torso, and every inch they cover, every molecule they graze, alights with a tingle that leaves her entire body quivering. Her breasts swell beneath his gaze, and her nipples harden to the point of pain.

"Christ, Scully," he breathes. His humid breath blows across her sensitive peaks, and she moans. My god, what is he doing to her? She wants his mouth on her so badly, she aches with it. Impatient, she whimpers, arching her back and gently thrusting her chest at him.

"What do you want?" he murmurs, grasping her waist. His eyes draw circles, around and around and around her nipples. His thumbs do the same at her hips.

"Mulderrrr…," she whines breathlessly. Jesus, he is killing her.

"Tell me, Scully. Tell me what you want," his voice is so deep, she feels it burrow beneath her skin.

She groans from the utter desperation, from the want. Seven years feels like penny candy compared to what he's putting her through now. "Please…," she gasps, "Touch me…"

She shakes as his tongue snakes out, as he slowly leans forward. "That's my girl," he growls, and then his mouth is there, and it's hot and it's wet, and oh my god, yes, she wants to be his girl—his good girl, his naughty girl, any damn girl he wants, as long as he keeps doing this. His tongue flicks against her nipple, and the sound that slides from her throat comes from so deep inside her well, she thinks she may have reached the bottom.

She pulls his head even closer in. She's powerless not to. His hand finds her other breast and rolls the nipple in counter-rhythm to his suckles. Suck roll suck roll suck roll. He switches and repeats on the opposite side. It's maddening and divine and the most pleasure she's felt in a decade. She looks down to watch him, and feels her inner walls contract at the sight of his closed eyes, his pursed lips, his tongue dipping in and out and around.

Her clit pulses along with his rhythm, and she finds herself rocking against him, yearning for some way to ease the pressure. "Mulder…," she sighs, and slides her fingers down his back, around his ribs, gathering his heat into her hands, trying to scoop him into her palms to keep forever.

She needs more though. More than his mouth on her breasts and his skin in her palms. She pulls back, as difficult as that is, and can't help but smile at the forlorn look on his face when her nipple leaves his mouth with a wet 'plop'.

"You're mean," he whines while tugging her back, but she stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Then let me be nice," she murmurs, reaching to her side to slide down her zipper, letting her skirt fall with a whisper to the ground.

"Scully…," his awed breath wafts through the air to brush across her skin. Thigh highs and garters and panties, oh my. And no wicked witch in sight. She knew this set would come in handy someday. Her panties are dark and wet with arousal, and she watches as his tongue sweeps along his lips. Damn, it's so fucking sexy seeing what she does to him.

For a moment his eyes close, and when they open again, she's surprised at how they've changed. No longer are they full of awe; they're now the eyes of a predator. He slides silently (like all good predators do)—down, down, down the edge of the bed. Until he's on his knees before her. She shudders. Is she the trembling rabbit to his cunning fox? She's eluded him for years. Is this what it feels like to finally be caught? Her heart races and her fingers twitch against her legs. She's having difficulty breathing.

His hands reach around to the backs of her thighs, then tickle their way up to cup her ass. He squeezes and she gasps. "So wet for me…," he whispers, "God, Scully…, you smell… Christ…" And suddenly, he is there, his mouth at her pubis, his hot, humid breath seeping through the satin to light her gently on fire. She watches him through a fog, gauzy and slow, as his tongue snakes out and draws closer, closer, and oh my god, she is going to die right here in expensive lingerie, only millimeters away from the truth.

He licks her from bottom to top, and the sensation is so electric, it feels as if there's no barrier at all. "Whoa god," bursts from her lips as her knees waver. She grabs hold of his shoulders to steady herself as he presses his entire face (it seems) against her and rubs. His teeth scrape through the satin and stimulate nerve endings she'd forgotten even existed within her body. He looks as though he wants to devour her entire pussy, and if she were able to think at this point in time, she'd think she's never heard a more brilliant idea in her life.

She moans as he continues his assault, and he answers her with his tongue, sliding its way beyond that very last line, delving beneath satin and lace and slippery desire. She spreads her legs for him, feeling every bit the naughty girl he'd coined her earlier, and feeling naughtier still as she grabs her panties and tugs, rolling them down her thighs until they get caught in the straps of her garters, then nudging herself toward him again.

"Holy fuck," he groans, his mouth already slicking its way through her folds. His tongue slips inside, and she whimpers. She's wanted him for so long, in this way and so many others. He's been inside her heart for seven years; it's about damn time he's inside her body, too.

She grabs his hair and grinds herself against his face, trying her hardest not to seem too desperate, but then has to chuckle when she realizes *that* ship sailed way back in the office this afternoon, when she came (hard) in his office chair.

His fingers clench and knead her ass until she is absolute putty, soft and moldable and arching right into his hold. She grunts when two fingers work their way inside, and when his tongue (has she mentioned how much she loves his tongue?) finally finds her clit, she prays he'll catch her when she inevitably falls.

"Oh, rightthere, rightthere, right fucking there…," she whimpers, thrusting harder, trying to direct that lovely mouth to stay… right… there. A slight crook of his fingers and she tenses, hands gripped in his hair, head fallen limp on her neck, a wordless cry spilling from her slackened lips.

She shudders against him, and her body crumples its way into his arms. He catches her. Of course he catches her. He always has. He always will. She knows this as surely as she knows there will never be another man in her life again. Ever.

Her gasps calm while his lips paint their way across just about every bit of skin she owns. She rests her forehead against his and smiles. "Mulder?" she whispers.

"Hmmm?" he hums, his mouth still too busy to speak.

"Make love to me," she breathes, then captures his bottom lip with her teeth. She considers holding it captive, wondering whether slow, wet kisses would be considered a reasonable ransom.

He has other plans though, lifting her up before she realizes what's happened, slinging her over his shoulder and slapping her playfully on the ass. She shrieks and protests, but secretly is aroused as hell. Dominant Mulder is definitely a turn-on. He tosses her down on the bed and towers above her, muttering, "Fuck yes, Scully."

Trailing her eyes down his body, she lands on the bulge in his slacks. Poor baby. She's been having all the fun. Her mouth waters as she watches him unbuckle and unbutton and unzip. She realizes she's biting her lip. Hard. As he discards of his remaining clothes, she holds her breath. God, how long has she waited for this? And then there he is, in all his (hard, thick, pulsing) glory. Glory, glory, hallelujah. She suddenly feels uncharacteristically patriotic.

"Oh. Yeahhhh," she whispers.

"You like it, Scully?" she's never heard a voice like that, like sex puddled on a gravel path, rough and hot and slick.

"I like it," she whispers, then she looks him directly in the eye, "I want it." His hips thrust forward at her words, and she quickly reaches down to unsnap her garters from her stockings, shoving her dampened panties down her legs. But when she begins to unfasten the garter belt, he stops her.

"No. Leave it," he licks his lips as his eyes travel down her body.

"Yeah?" she murmurs. He crawls up the bed, hovering over her like a mist. It does something to her, seeing him above her like that, makes her muscles contract, makes her wet. Wetter. As if she weren't wet enough already tonight.

"Oh yeah," he splays his hand along her belly, and fingers the satin of the lingerie. "And the stockings, too. So, so naughty, Scully."

"God, Mulder," she whispers, and he kisses her, full and wet and deep. His cock presses against her leg and she squirms from the delicious heat. This is the way she's always imagined it would be with him. Powerful and all-consuming and so hot she knows she'll walk away with burns. He is fire. She's always known that. Good thing she's been stock-piling ice.

She reaches down to find him, to take what she hopes is hers and finally guide him home. Her fingers wrap around the hard, smooth length of him, and his groan spills messily into her mouth. He feels…he feels so… she can't even put it into words. Is fan-fucking-tastic proper English? Does she even care?

She pumps him in her hand and can barely contain her arousal. It's Mulder in her hand, Mulder squeezing shut his eyes and groaning above her. Mulder. He's hot and hard and hers. The thought is overwhelming. It's awe-inspiring. It's enough to make her grip his hair and buck against him like an ornery pony.

Having him this close is almost painful; her body senses his proximity and is throbbing, aching for that piece that will fill her so precisely, she'll never feel broken again.

He is that piece.

Time stops, and she closes her eyes, wishing she could somehow capture this moment, save it in a Bell jar to relive again and again and again—this culmination of her past and the beginning of her future. She thinks it may be the most wonderful moment of her life thus far.

She's ready.

She shifts below him and spreads her legs, then with gentle hands, guides him to her entrance. But just as he's nudging against her folds, he suddenly rolls them over, and she finds herself sitting astride him.

"This way…," he rasps, "I want to see you…"

"Okay," she murmurs, slightly self-conscious, but then she sees the look in his eyes—how could she ever doubt herself when he looks at her like that—like she's the answer to every question he's ever asked? She props a hand on his chest and raises to her knees above him. With gasping breaths and tangled fingers, they fumble for a moment. Until suddenly, he is there, he's really THERE, poised and ready below her.

She takes in a deep breath (thinking, this is the last breath I'll take before… From now on, her life will be divided into two parts—before Fox Mulder was inside her and after) then sinks slowly, slowly down the length of him. And ohhhh god, the length of him. She bites her lip and tries to keep locked on his gaze, but the way his cock bumps along her walls makes her dizzy—she can feel his every vein, his every perfect imperfection—it's absolutely divine. "Oh…. My…. God…," she gasps, and allows her head to drop back on her neck.

"Yessssss…," he hisses in return.

She raises herself up, then down again , and the second trip is just as heavenly as the first. She decides to try her luck with a third. And a fourth. Andafifth andasixth andaseventh, and before long, she's lost count, her hips slurring through the numbers like an auctioneer. And he's moaning and she's moaning, and fuck, he feels so damn good finally inside her.

His thumbs find the planes of her hips, and his fingers the curves of her ass. He grinds her down, squeezing a gasp from her throat . Maybe between the both of them, they can carve a niche out between his hipbones just large enough for her to fit directly inside. Undulating her pelvis, she does her best to try. Nothing, nothing has ever felt like this, nothing has ever been this positively perfect.

She sinks forward, and her aching breasts brush his chest. The way his hairs tickle at her nipples makes her squirm. Hovering above his face, she thinks, this is where I've belonged my entire life. "It's perfect…. you're perfect," she gasps barely against his mouth, rocking her entire body in rhythm to his thrusts. He arches his neck to kiss her, but she stays barely out of reach, flicking out her tongue to play.

"Unghhh," he grunts , chasing after her as diligently as he chases after the unknown. Fortunately, she is very known and very willing to be caught. She grins as she teases, allowing him a taste only every few tries. Until the temptation is too much and she can't resist filling his mouth with her tongue, sliding it thickly alongside his own. She's not ashamed to have lost their little game. That was her plan all along anyway.

But playful kisses turn serious, and soon their mouths are sparring just as ferociously as their bodies. She presses her breasts flat to his chest, grinding her entire torso against his heat. The straps of the garters twist between them. Her world pares down, grows smaller and smaller and smaller, until there is only her body and his body, and the sparks that are flying between. And that amaaazing spot (how the fuck does he know?) that he's hitting with Every. Single. Stroke.

His hands sweep down her back to land on her ass, and he squeezes the soft flesh, pressing her further, further, and oh god, oh god, oh god, this is incredible. The ebb and flow of their bodies is transcendental. They're moving in such utter tandem, she briefly thinks, I am him. He is me. There is no delineation anymore. And really, there's been no delineation for such a very long time. Now she finally realizes it.

She pulls away, tucking her head into one of her very favorite places on his body (not that they aren't all favorites, but this one is special)— that dark, humid cove against his neck and beneath his jaw. She's shed tears here, she's drawn strength here, she's fallen in love here. And now she can burst into flames here. She presses her lips to his pulse and feels the beats of his heart against them. She wishes she could swallow them, could own a piece of his heart forever.

Their movements have become frantic. He's slamming into her with such force, all she can do is hang on for the ride. And what a ride it is. It's the best damn ride of her life. Her clit is grinding so deliciously against his pubic bone, she wants to cry. His grunts are frenzied and so, so hot, and her muffled cries answer him in kind.

His hand burrows between their throbbing bodies and finds the place they're joined. His thumb against her clit reminds her of dry ice—so impossibly cold, it scorches. She cries out as the fog begins to spread. It blossoms out from her core and seeps throughout her body, until she's so enveloped, she can barely breath through the thick of it. "Oh god, Mulder," she whimpers against his throat. "Mulderrrrr…." She rocks against him with fervor. Right there, right there, right there…

One final rock of her hips and she bursts, her lips sliding along his jaw as the waves overtake her. He follows with a glorious surge against her, and when he groans her name, it is loud enough to echo off the walls. His fingers clench into the meat of her ass, and she dimly wonders whether she'll bear ten purple marks to show for it. God, she hopes so. She wants a souvenir. She needs tangible proof of this glorious day, and this even more glorious night.

It's ironic really, the path they travelled to get to this place. It took doctors and labs and donations, when really, all they needed were cell phones, pasta, and perhaps a little persuasion. Does it matter though? They're here.

She lies atop his chest and considers moving in. She never wants to leave his warmth. Playing with her hair, he mumbles, "I'm glad we decided to try it the old fashioned way, Scully." She hums her approval and does her best to believe in miracles.

Today they merged in a petri dish.

Tonight they merged in her bed.

It's about fucking time.

She glances at the digital clock on her nightstand. 11:59 PM.

The numbers glow red. The same red as the bathroom door in the hallway outside their office. The same red as the velvet curtains from the restaurant tonight. The same red as the blood flowing through her veins, readying her womb for a fertilized egg. The same red as the heart inside her chest, throbbing with love for the man lying beneath her.

12:00 AM.

It's tomorrow.


End file.
